So that, to me, is important that audiences are treated with an

Host:
The theater was nearly empty — just a few rows of seats, faded red velvet, breathing in the dust and silence of a hundred forgotten applauses. The screen loomed like a sleeping moon, blank and waiting, while the projection light cut through the dimness in a trembling beam of gold and dust.

Outside, the rain drummed against the old windows, and the faint buzz of a neon sign leaked through the walls like a heartbeat that refused to die.

In the middle row, Jack sat slouched, his hands folded, a paper cup of stale coffee in his lap. His grey eyes stared at the blank screen, not seeing the silence, but hearing it — the kind that speaks louder than sound.

A few seats away, Jeeny sat cross-legged, her notebook open, the glow of her phone lighting her face as she scribbled notes between raindrops of thought.

On the screen, frozen in light, a quote appeared — projected from her phone like a sermon cast upon the void:

“So that, to me, is important that audiences are treated with an amount of respect toward their intelligence. Most Hollywood films don't respect their intelligence.”
— Eriq La Salle

The words floated like smoke, dissolving slowly, but the echo stayed — sharp, deliberate, heavy with meaning.

Jeeny: softly, almost to herself “He’s right. The audience isn’t a mirror, it’s a mind. People want to be moved, not just manipulated.”

Jack: without looking at her “That’s cute. But try selling that idea to a studio that spends two hundred million on explosions. You want to make them think? They’ll tell you you’re tanking their box office.”

Host:
His voice was low, rough, a whiskey-soaked realism that cut through her idealism like smoke through light. The projector hummed, steady and soft, its beam trembling over dust.

Jeeny: smiling faintly “But isn’t that the whole point of art — to elevate what the world reduces? You can’t build culture by underestimating it.”

Jack: dryly “You can if you’re making money.”

Jeeny: shaking her head “But art isn’t supposed to be about money.”

Jack: laughs, hollowly “Everything’s about money. Even idealism gets a budget eventually.”

Host:
A flicker of light passed across the screen, illuminating his face — angular, tired, the face of a man who’d seen too many scripts rewritten by executives and too few by truth.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve given up on the audience, Jack.”

Jack: shrugs “Not on them. On the idea that they still want to think. People don’t go to the movies for reflection anymore — they go for refuge. Give them noise, color, closure. Don’t make them feel responsible for understanding.”

Jeeny: leaning forward, voice fierce but tender “Maybe that’s because we stopped trusting them to. Maybe filmmakers got lazy, not audiences.”

Host:
The rain softened, and through the window, the city lights began to blur into watercolor streaks of gold and blue. The theater, that ancient cathedral of light, became suddenly sacred again.

Jack: after a pause “You talk like people are starving for depth.”

Jeeny: “They are. You can see it in how they react to something real — when a film doesn’t explain everything, when it trusts them to feel instead of follow. People are smarter than Hollywood lets them be.”

Jack: grim smile “Maybe. But ‘smart’ doesn’t sell popcorn.”

Jeeny: “Neither does truth, most of the time. But it still matters.”

Host:
Her voice carried softly through the room, echoing just enough to make the empty seats sound alive, like ghosts of audiences who once believed.

Jack: taking a slow sip of coffee “You really think a story can change someone? Like, truly — alter them?”

Jeeny: meeting his eyes “Of course. Every time. Not like a revolution — more like erosion. A line of dialogue, a glance, a pause — they wear at the mind. They remind people they’re thinking creatures, not just consumers.”

Jack: “Sounds beautiful. Also delusional.”

Jeeny: “You’d rather live in a world of noise?”

Jack: smiling faintly “At least it’s honest noise. You know what to expect from it.”

Host:
He said it lightly, but there was a shadow in his tone — the kind that belonged to someone who’d once believed, and lost the right to. The light from the projector caught the smoke from his breath, painting him like a ghost framed in nostalgia.

Jeeny: softly, her eyes kind “You used to believe in story, didn’t you?”

Jack: looking down “Yeah. Until I realized most of them end with a focus group.”

Jeeny: gently “Then maybe the problem isn’t the audience. Maybe it’s the people who stopped fighting for them.”

Host:
Her words hung like dust in sunlight, shimmering, painful, and true.

The projector clicked, a reel of black-and-white film beginning to roll — random footage, faces, eyes, streets, smiles — fragments of humanity pieced together by the unseen hand of memory.

The images spilled across their faces — Jack in grayscale melancholy, Jeeny in light and conviction.

Jack: watching the screen “You think they care about this stuff? You think anyone’s still sitting in the dark for meaning?”

Jeeny: “Every time someone cries in a theater, or sits in silence after the credits — that’s meaning. They don’t have to say it. They just have to feel it.”

Host:
The film flickered, and for a moment, an image of a child appeared on screen — wide-eyed, laughing, hands outstretched toward the light. Then it faded into snow, then black.

Jack: quietly, almost reverently “You know… I used to think the screen was a kind of mirror. But maybe it’s a window — showing us what we’ve forgotten to see in ourselves.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Exactly. And that’s why we owe them respect. Because when they look through that window, they deserve to see truth, not just tricks.”

Jack: after a long silence “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we underestimate them because we’re afraid they’ll outgrow us.”

Jeeny: closing her notebook “That’s what Eriq La Salle was saying, I think. That respect isn’t just a moral duty — it’s an artistic challenge. To believe the audience can keep up.”

Jack: half-smiling “And if they can’t?”

Jeeny: “Then we teach them through beauty, not through noise.”

Host:
The rain stopped completely now, and the city outside glowed with reflected light, silver streets, and breathing glass. Inside, the film ended, leaving only the faint hum of the projector — a sound like a heart refusing to give up.

Jack stood, stretching, his silhouette cast long across the screen, blending with the ghosts of the stories behind him. Jeeny watched him with a small smile, that mixture of challenge and faith that always made him uneasy.

Jack: softly, turning toward her “Maybe someday, someone will make a movie about us — two idiots arguing in an empty theater.”

Jeeny: grinning “If they do, I just hope they trust the audience enough to listen.”

Host:
And as the lights dimmed, the projection beam flickered one last time, bathing them both in a halo of dust and silver light — a moment suspended, fragile, cinematic, utterly human.

The camera of eternity pulled back, leaving only the echo of dialogue, the soft hum of reflection, and the ghost of belief that art could still matter.

Host:
And so, in the quiet of the empty theater,
it became clear that intelligence is not a barrier between artist and audience —
it is their bridge.

To respect it is to honor the act of being seen,
to make not just a film,
but a conversation —
between light and darkness,
between illusion and truth,
between what we show…
and what we dare to understand.